“I fell.”
“So I see, pudding.”
“I’m not a pudding.”
I kneel down next to her and use my knuckle to wipe her tears. “Yes, you are. You’re my chocolate pudding.”
She manages a small smile.
I look to the teaching assistant. “What happened?”
“She was playing tag in the playground and fell over. She put her hand out to break her fall.”
“It hurts, Daddy,” Lexi whines.
I ruffle her hair.
“We can’t give her anything for the pain,” the teaching assistant says apologetically.
Lexi flops forward and presses her face against my shoulder, crying even harder. I want to cry too, but I hold back my tears. I need to stay strong for her. I feel helpless. I want to be able to fix her wrist and take her pain away, but there’s nothing I can do except take her to the hospital to get it checked out.
“Come on, pudding,” I say softly. “We’ll go see a doctor.”
I lift her into my arms and carry her to Barbara’s car. She must have kids of her own because she has a couple of booster seats in the back. I sit Lexi in one of them and strap her in and then move the other so I can sit beside her and hold her good hand. She squeezes tight and sobs quietly through the entire drive.
“Do you want me to wait?” Barbara asks as she drops us as close to the Accident and Emergency entrance as she can.
“No, it’s okay. I don’t know how long we’ll be.”
“Okay. Keep in touch. Chin up, sweetie,” she says to Lexi. “You might end up with a plaster cast that all your friends can sign.”
Lexi sniffs and smiles.
“Thanks, Barbara,” I say.
I carry Lexi into the hospital, even though she could probably walk. It’s the first time I’ve ever brought her here, and I hope it will be the last. I give the receptionist all our details, and then we take a seat in the waiting room, me on an uncomfortable red plastic chair, Lexi curled up on my knee. She seems too tired to cry now, so she sniffles against my chest. I wonder if we’d be seen faster if she was still bawling her eyes out.
We seem to wait forever, but I guess any delay is too long when your child is in pain. I do my best to cheer her up, but I’m fighting a losing battle. I can’t begin to imagine how bad she’s hurting or how tired she is.
Eventually, a nurse comes over.
“Hi,” she says, crouching down. “You must be Lexi.”
“I hurt my wrist.”
“So I see. Do you want to come through to my special room, and I’ll take a little look?”
Lexi nods. I carry her through and pop her onto the narrow bed, which is covered in a long sheet of paper towel.
“Can you tell me what happened?” the nurse asks.
“I fell,” Lexi says.
“It happened at school,” I add. “Apparently, she put her hand down to break her fall.”
The nurse smiles to acknowledge my words but keeps her attention firmly focused on Lexi. “Can you be brave for me while I take a look at your wrist?”
The moment the nurse tries to touch it, Lexi squeals with pain but does eventually let the nurse take a better look. She tries to wriggle her fingers when asked but makes lots of dramatic sounds as the nurse completes her examination.
